Generator, Second Floor
by squarenine
Summary: As Chuck Bartowski's life draws to a close, he finds solace in his passing. Chuck/Sarah.


**A/N:** Just a tiny idea that blossomed. Hope you guys will like it (: Un-betaed, so I apologize for any errors.

Lyrics are from "Generator ^ Second Floor" by Freelance Whales

* * *

He stands at attention, pulling at his collar, scratching subtly at his thigh where a loose tag itches against his flesh. The bowtie chokes him; he coughs lightly into his hand. A cloth dabs at his forehead and he nods with a grateful smile in Morgan's direction. Rubbing his fingers lightly together, he bounces on his feet, feeling every little cell within shutting down, coming alive and bouncing along with his heartbeat. Then he feels himself perspire even more and he lets out a little curse at the patches soaking through his suit.

"Dude, you okay?" Morgan whispers, keeping a grin on his face to appease the gathering crowd, though he peered nervously at his best friend.

"Y-yeah, I'm good, I'm good. Thanks–thanks Morgan," he replies, voice shaky and hitting all kinds of tones that show how he _isn't _all that good and fine. He ignores the fact that he's bordering the edge of hysteria, and tugs at his collar again with a rapidly-moistening palm.

"No, no, no," the shorter man mutters, and Chuck winces when a hand collides against his cheek, albeit softly. But it still _stings._ "Charles Irving Bartowski, you're about to get married to the girl of your dreams in about... Oh, I don't know, five minutes? _You cannot freak out on me now, man!" _

"I-I'm okay. I'm alright, I promise," he replies unconvincingly. He ignores how Morgan gazes in his direction with absolute concern, how the rest of the guests eye him as though he'd grown a scary shade of pale and green simultaneously. He decides to stare at the bouquets of gardenias strewn all the way down the aisle instead. _I'm just about to get married to the girl of my dreams, _no big deal, right?

When the soft music begins to drift from the side of the podium, and everyone rises to their feet in unison, he prays that his knees won't buckle. He nods appreciatively at the CAT Squad as they saunter slowly down the aisle. Carina and Zondra, both dressed in the lightest of blues that accentuate their curves, shoot him grins as they take their place beside the Maid-of-Honor.

But Chuck's knees do eventually buckle, and when she reaches him in her simple –yet–elegant dress that fortunately had no bullet holes_ – unlike the one she'd showed him_ – she has to steady him as he grips both her hands, though he's careful not to hurt her. He can't help it – she looks too stunning. She grins, and he has to contain the glowing smirk that stretches across his face. She was too good for him – too beautiful, too amazing – and he pinches himself lightly to make sure he isn't dreaming.

"_Don't freak out,"_ she whispers, right before he decides notto freak out on the biggest day of his life. Right before they take their first kiss as a married couple.

QQQQQ

_**Don't fix my smile, life is long enough**_  
_** We will put this flesh into the ground again**_

QQQQQ

He shuffled unceremoniously into the common area, shooting shallow, insincere smiles in the direction where such smiles were, in turn, shot his way. The room was white, as it always had been. Windows were scarce, letting little sunlight in, while the overhead ceiling lights bathed everything in an unearthly ethereal glow. He squinted, regardless of the illumination, moving and bumping occasionally into the various pieces of furniture, however neatly and un-obstructively placed they had been.

Around him, others shuffled around, just as inanimately as he was, ignoring the mad scramble of women and men dressed in a pale shade of white, moving about and contrasting their matching grey uniforms. The light stubble on his chin signaled that he had forgotten to shave again – an increasingly common occurrence that had surprised even himself.

He ran a hand against it, cursing inwardly at the irritating prickle it left on his palm. But he was already well-settled into his usual chair, and he had every reason to stay put, lest someone stole his spot. He was selfish in that way.

He closed his eyes, in preparation of the deep, soulless oblivion of his afternoon nap, where the memories would plague him endlessly. Memories that flooded, destroyed and drowned, like a hurricane that tore through his thoughts and emotions. Memories that he desired nothing more than to bottle up and keep away forever. They only came to him in dreams, sometimes deteriorating into nightmares. And life continued with its perpetual mediocrity until he fell asleep again.

"Mr Bartowski? The others have already gathered in the dining hall. It's time for your dinner too, sir," she spoke gently, a fragile voice that disturbed the while silence of the vacant room before him, dim and melancholy in its lack of light. He stared at the window adjacent to his chair, the only window in the room that granted him a view of the outside world. He realizes that he's slept through the dinner call.

"Alright," he replied, rising slowly to his feet with the arms of his chair as a support. Offering a smile, he spoke again, "When you gotta eat, you gotta eat, huh? Just let me use the little boys' room first."

She smiled, one he could plainly see, did not reach her eyes. In it, a sense of sympathy that he detested almost immediately. Most knew of his past – his team had been legends in the ranks of the Company. But he was aware of how gradual and _expected _retirement had come. Being a spy held little attraction after he'd settled down, and he still thanked God for the fact that Sarah had settled down with him. They'd started a family, raised a dog, and expanded her fishbowl into an aquarium. Finally, the picket fence came into view, their house gained a new bedroom or two, and a few baby pairs of Chuck Taylors joined the multi-colored ranks at their doorstep. And of course, a gun or two could've occasionally been seen on the kitchen counter or under the sofa.

Splashing a handful of water against his face, he stared at the ragged, aged man who stared back with as much precision. White streaks colored most of his once-chocolate head of hair, and his eyes had dulled from their usual twinkle. He smiled, yet his reflection did not smile back, instead grimacing where a jovial expression should've been. He splashed his face with another handful, grabbing a towel to the side before wiping his face dry.

A muffled voice called from behind the door, asking politely if he was alright. He nodded, despite the action being lost through the chipped door, paint peeling at almost every corner of the wood. He stared back at the broken shell in the mirror, combing a hand through his slightly damp hair.

Where had his life gone?

It'd gone when Sarah Walker had finally, after thirty years, found it in her heart to waltz gracefully from his side.

QQQQQ

_**Don't fix my smile, life is long enough**_  
_** We will put this flesh into the ground again**_

QQQQQ

The book was torn, tattered and well-worn through years of skimming. Its various browning pages had already been dog-eared and crinkled in various places, with subtle tear-lines along the edges of the sheets. The hard leather itself was barely hanging off the bulk of pages, yet he held it in his hand as though it were the most exquisite artifact in the world. Caressing, touching, embracing, he fingered the stubbed edges, pressing away the creases with his wrinkled palm.

The first page, a date occupied the top left-hand corner. It was his birthday, though he could barely recall the last time he'd even kept track of his age. How old was he now? _60? 70? _He made a mental note to ask one of the nurses later. That date would always be remembered as the day Bryce Larkin changed his life – for better or worse, he still wasn't sure. He turned the page with a gentle, trembling hand. The day he'd first met Sarah Walker. The scented card she'd left for him was still pasted there, with two enlarged words occupying the bottom half of the page, "To call?"

The page after, and he'd officially been marked as the most important government asset in the world. Then he'd met Carina, the sexy wild-card who had been one of Sarah's bridesmaids at their wedding. He'd made enemies, met good spies, and normal civilians. He'd broken up with Sarah, gotten back together with Sarah. He'd _kissed _Sarah. He'd been kidnapped and he was proud to admit that he'd fought someone in a freakin' gravitron. Bryce died. He was a spy, fighting for Sarah's heart, fighting for the world.

Every minute detail, every _facet _of his life had been penned into the diary, every page a discreet code that only he could crack. He felt a hot, salty tear escape from an eye as he turned to the very last page. A picture – _the picture – _that he'd found in her suitcase, all those years ago, was pasted down. His arm wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her hair.

_Don't freak out. _

He was beginning to forget. Parts of his life morphed into a big, black hole in his mind that pained him to remember. He felt like Benjamin Button, aging backwards, growing younger as his thoughts became more juvenile, more childlike. He felt less like himself every day, the darkness in his mind spreading wider, enveloping his mind like a swarm of locusts devouring fields of crop. He was losing his mind to Alzheimer's, the slow, inevitable steady battle to the end.

The book kept him sane. It kept him aware of the life he'd once had, the impressive things that he'd accomplished in his days as a spy. Especially Sarah. It reminded him of her, everything about her. Everything he might forget. Every day, he refreshed his present with the past.

"What's that?"

He looked up in surprise, nearly dropping the book in the process, as a pair of stunning cobalt eyes stared back into his. The girl was no older than eight, clad in a flowery sun dress, flawless waves of blonde curls hanging down the sides of her face. He'd seen her before, perhaps from a distinct part of his memory that no longer remained. She peered curiously over the side of his armchair, vision following the book while he grasped it protectively in his hand.

"It's a book, sweetie," he replied with a smile, running a hand across the cover. "It's a very special book."

"Is it a story book?" she asked, excitement shining in her eyes as she bounced up and down on the spot, eliciting a chuckle from him.

He grinned, looking from the diary, back to the little girl's expression. The only thing he was afraid of, was that she'd collapse from over-excitement. "Why yes, it is!"

Her grin widened. Her eyes widened, and as she let loose an eager giggle of enthusiasm, he felt his heart swell slightly at the sight of this uncontained bottle of joy. "Will you read it to me, Grampa?"

He froze, pushing his thick-framed reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "What's your name, honey?"

She tilted her head adorably to the side, scrunching her nose in confusion, swaying slightly on the spot. "My name is –"

"Samantha!" A disembodied voice carried through the living quarters, and for a moment, he was treated to a familiar sense of déjà vu. The little girl spun around so violently that he held out a hand to steady her, just for good measure.

"I'm over here, mommy!" she called out, a wonderful smile gracing her face. He had to smile too.

"Sarah?" he called out hopefully as he craned his head to see past his arm chair and the various other elderly folk around them. His heart soared as a woman came into view, her blonde hair, long and wavy, falling in curls around her shoulders. The only thing that registered his mind was the fact that she was a splitting image of his absent wife. "Sarah!"

"Daddy?" The woman ran toward him, grabbing his wrinkled hand in hers. He felt her hand tremble slightly at his touch. "Daddy, are you okay? It's me, Lizzie."

His eyes scanned her face determinedly, raking over her features. Her nose was just a little shorter than her mother's, her mouth a little more pursed, her eyes had taken on his coffee brown, but she was beautiful, all the same. So why did his heart sink, no matter the tiny bit? "Lizzie? Honey, what are you doing here?"

He watched as her eyes drooped, downcast, and as suddenly as that had happened, she was smiling again, albeit insincerely, squeezing his hand and pecking his cheek lightly. "We're visiting you, of course. Me and little Sam here."

"Sam? Lizzie, why haven't you ever brought little Sam to see me before?"

She stared worriedly at him, something that he'd come to recognize within the past few years. All he could do was grin at the splitting image of his daughter, standing before him with an equally vibrant smile. "Dad, you've seen her before. You've… you've seen her countless times, don't you remember?"

"Huh," he replied, rubbing his thankfully-shaven chin thoughtfully, chuckling to lightening the mood. "Ah, your old man's just kidding with you, darlin'. Who could ever forget Sammy?"

"I could never forget you too, Grampa!" She beamed at him with missing teeth in between her otherwise perfect teeth. He patted her head gently, beaming just as brightly. _Oh, God. Why can't I remember?_

He watched as she ushered her daughter away from his arm chair, toward his favorite nurse, curiosity burning as she described the situation animatedly – hand gestures included – and left the little girl in her charge. He watched proudly as she returned to his side, heart swelling with pride as he regarded his only daughter, a wonderful, deserving adult.

"Daddy, are you feeling alright?"

"Of course, of course, why do you ask?"

Her expression, which said something close to, "_If you lie to me again, I will stop visiting," _prompted him to retract the previous statement. He sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, in an attempt to quell his pounding head. "I–I just miss her. That's all."

"Oh, Dad," she replied, giving his hand the tiniest of grasps, and he feels a slight burn in his chest when he notices the tears in her eyes and realizes that his own cheekbones are stained with tears too."I miss her too. But she's not coming back; you and I both know that."

With a striking grief etched in his every movement, he brought a hand to cup his daughter's face, brushing his thumb lightly over her eyelids, wiping the tears away. He hugged her then, two broken souls mourning the loss of one.

"I just miss her. That's all."

QQQQQ

_**Don't fix my smile, life is long enough**_  
_** We will put this flesh into the ground again**_

QQQQQ

He awakes to an unbelievably warm room, a certain heat to the bed that he'd never felt before in his years living in the Home. He coughs lightly into his hand, he pulls at his nightshirt, and he lets out a muttered curse at the perspiration that soaks through his clothing. He's not one for waking up in the night.

"Chuck?"

He sits up at the unexpected voice, eyes darting around the pitch-dark room, trying desperately to recognize, to pinpoint and to miraculously see in the dark. Then he sees her, sitting in the chair across the room, so young and fresh and beautiful and she's just how he remembers her on their wedding day. He stares at his wrinkled hands and aged body and wonders just why they're living in different timeframes.

"Sarah," he breathes her name with a whisper, shifting to move closer, when she's suddenly by his side, leaning forward to place a kiss against his forehead. His heart swells and he's left reeling when her fingers begin to entwine with his. "You came back."

She replies with a grin, caressing his face with the gentleness of an angel, her palm smooth and warm and cold, all the same, as it glides over his skin. "It's time, Chuck."

He understands, in that instant, that his heartbeat slows to a stop, and he ceases to breathe. But the smile on his face is the most peaceful one he's ever had in all his life, and he finds himself watching his lifeless body on the bed, hands gripping an imaginary force above the blanket, the widest of smiles on his aged face. He stands beside her form, and he takes her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the smoothness of the back of her hand.

"I'm dead," he says, a surprised revelation in his tone as they walk, hand in hand, out of the building. She leans into him, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. God, he'd missed her so much.

"Yes, you are," she replies, amused. "And so am I."

He chuckles, pulling her to him, reveling in her warmth as he wraps his arms around her protectively. He inhales her scent, that same wonderful vanilla that tickled his nose whenever he held her within close proximity. He doesn't care where they go next, as long as he knows she's there with him.

"So why am I so happy?"

**_And now the smell of these wood frames_**  
**_ Is the only sense I've left_**  
**_ So as you pull me from the bed_**  
**_ Tell me I look stunning and cadaverous_**


End file.
